The red banner hangs limply on a broken musket jutting haphazardly into the soaked ground. Bodies are strewn around like they were thrown there, mutilated and marked. A heavy scent is in the air, sharp and metallic. Blood stains the air with its stench, and the ground spits tries to spit it out. Death is everywhere, masked on the glazed gazes of the bodies who tried to escape from it, but failed. They ran here for the flag, fought here for the flag, and died under the flag. But this is not a fight for the fate of a scrap of cloth. This is a fight for the nation that stands behind it, for the innocent child who will never know the deep chords of his father's voice. This flag stands for the blood that was sprayed upon it, for the limp, pale hand that grasps at the cracked musket it flies on. It stands for the splayed corpses lying around it. it flies for the dead that soak it in red. And as the day closes and the cloud of red lifts, the flag is picked up in a wafting breeze and dances on the wind. It dances for the dead around it, for the blood upon it, and the nation behind